Paint Black

by Bolado, Baltazar

  “If you don’t… they’ll steal third base… and there won’t be much we can do about it.”

  Haddox rubbed up the ball.

  The umpire called out to them, “Let’s play ball.”

  Borelli didn’t move, holding his vision on Ryan.

  “Okay,” replied Ryan, at last.

  Striding back to the plate, the catcher crouched and gave the signal.

  In the pause, Ryan contemplated his dilemma. Because of his shoulder pain, he significantly altered his release point, which greatly affected his accuracy. Slide stepping further compromised his accuracy.

  I must do it, reasoned Ryan, his heart pounding.

  Crowd noise violently slamming against him, Ryan placed his glove on his thigh and then pulled back up and came to a set position. Out of the corner of his eye, he considered the man on first—the winning run—before taking a long look at the man on second—the tying run.

  He gave the slide step and fired the fastball.

  The explosion of pain ripped through his shoulder as he delivered the pitch. Surprised by the abruptness of his pitch, the runners did not attempt to steal.

  Haddox’s fastball bore in on the inside black of the plate.

  Garland made the mistake of trying to make contact with the pitcher’s pitch.

  At the thinnest area of the wood, closest to his grip, the bat shattered from the force of the ball’s inside trajectory. As hard luck would have it, the slow dribbler threatened to skip past Cruz at second.

  As before, earlier in the game, Cruz lunged to make the play. The ball wedged in its pocket. Coming up throwing, the ball barely arrived in time to record the first out of the ninth inning.

  When the dust cleared, the runners moved up and stood at second and third.

  Kicking at the dirt in front of the rubber, Ryan kept his head down, trying desperately to fight off his frustration and anger.

  Goddamnit! If he hits the ball directly at Cruz, it’s a sure double play.

  Smothering heat and crowd noise crashing against him, Ryan wiped away the sweat falling into his eyes.

  At the plate stood Emilio Torrez, the Dragons leadoff second baseman.

  Torrez, a left-handed batter, hitting at a torrid .329 average, eagerly swung his bat. Common baseball strategy in such situations was to intentionally walk the lefty and pitch to the right-handed hitter, Lorenzo Domingo.

  The correctness of the strategy had its drawbacks.

  Putting Torrez on base meant pitching to Domingo, a .304 hitter. It also meant Rolando Vega, the Independent Mountain Conference’s leading home run hitter with 38 home runs, would get another at bat against Ryan.

  Ryan glanced at Ramsey in the dugout. The manager sat motionless, concentrating on the lineup clipboard on the wall.

  Picking up the rosin bag, Ryan stepped up on the rubber and looked at Borelli who stood behind home plate waiting.

  Their eyes locked. Almost instantly, a thought passed through them.

  The unintentional, intentional walk.

  Slowly nodding at Borelli, Ryan went over the risk in his mind.

  Not wanting to walk Torrez outright, neither wanting to pitch to him, the risk of the unintentional, intentional walk involved pitching just outside of the strike zone, hoping to entice the batter to swing at a pitcher’s pitch and make an out. Worst case scenario being, if the hitter didn’t take the bait, a walk would be issued.

  Ryan went over in his mind Domingo’s and Vega’s strengths and weaknesses.

  All I need is two more outs. It don’t matter how I get them. The only thing that matters is the “W.”

  The entire stadium became frozen in time.

  The Panther and Dragon dugouts seemed to disappear. The crowd in the stands became invisible. Even the noise all around him went away.

  His mask perched on top of his head, Borelli stood behind home plate and studied Ryan Haddox. A look comes over a man’s disposition when he’s trying to capture a moment or a vision that he realizes goes beyond the threshold of normality. The realization that what was happening existed outside the boundaries and limitations of normal men, compelled Borelli to try to hold the vision in his spirit.

  More than a living image to record and immortalize, Ryan transformed into a spectacle for the spirit and ghosts of Panther baseball’s yesteryears.

  A mere man of flesh and blood could not pitch the past three months with a rotator cuff injury. To withstand such pain and torment, one ascended the heights of gods and heroes.

  I’m not a god, nor am I a hero, Ryan reasoned. Gods live in the clouds beyond this world and heroes win wars and defeat horrific enemies. I’m just a simple man who loves my family.

  Although his rationale made sense to him, he felt a special force within him. He admitted that if he achieved his objective—if he made it to the major leagues by pitching under such dreadful agony—he elevated above the normal.

  Only then—when he secured his family’s future—would he place any value on his exploit.

  “Pitch the damn ball, bush league!” yelled a voice from the stands behind home plate.

  Coming out of his deep thought, Ryan proceeded to feed Emilio Torrez two successive slow curves, the second slower than the previous one. Both pitches stayed well off the outside black. Only by overextending his bat length could Torrez make contact.

  Torrez didn’t even make an attempt, letting both hooks pass.

  Behind on the count 2-0, Ryan refused to give in.

  Remaining outside, he managed to paint the outside black of the plate with his cutter making the count 2 and 1.

  Borelli pounded his glove in encouragement. “I’ll catch whatever you throw, Cowboy! Right to my glove!”

  The compliment reached Ryan and he smiled on the inside.

  Borelli loved the cowboy legend. He kept a cowboy collection, which he grew in the offseason.

  Stetsons, lustrous and dull, trim and lurid, to cowboy roper hats, full of stories and memories covered his walls back home in Philadelphia. His collection of men's embroidered triple welt square toe Western Boot were on full display, he regularly mentioned.

  “Look at this, Cowpoke,” Ryan recalled Borelli pulling out his cell phone one day in the early spring. “Let me show you how men used to impress the ladies in the days of leather, cowhide, and Winchester.”

  Nikolai proudly flipped through the pages of his cell phone, showing Ryan hundreds of pictures of his collection. “See these? They cost a cool three hundred bucks.” A big smile shaped his face. “One cold night in December they captured a gorgeous filly’s fancy and she made sure I didn’t freeze to death.”

  Ninety minutes into the impromptu exhibition, Ryan tried to tear away from Borelli.

  “Where you going, buckaroo?”

  “I’ve got this thing, ya see,” Ryan answered, gesturing in the direction of some unseen place, exaggerating his desperation to get away.

  Fighting for his survival as a ballplayer and a man, Ryan remembered those silly times and the memories calmed him.

  Using a 3-4 sequence, Borelli signaled fastball.

  The call demonstrated the guts of the Panther battery. While Ryan committed to the idea of not giving in to the batter, Borelli correctly read his mind that he didn’t want to walk him intentionally. Danger hovered over Ryan like a shadow. If he didn’t place his heater exactly where he wanted, Torrez could end the game with a well-placed hit.

  Four inches… nothing more, nothing less.

  Ryan envisioned his fastball releasing from his hand and cutting through the air on the way to Borelli’s mitt, exactly four inches off the outside black of home plate. In his mind’s eye, he saw Torrez swing, make contact, and pop it up in the infield.

  Agonizing pain caused his arm muscles to disobey. Instead of being four inches outside, the ball missed by far more.

  Torrez watched it go by without even considering it.

  The count was 3-1. It became obvious to Ryan that trying to recover the count no longer made
good sense. Putting another pitch outside the strike zone, he walked Torrez.

  On the mound, a cool sensation come over Ryan.

  The bases loaded, his entire career and the Panthers’ season were uncertain. Instead of nerves, calmness overtook him. The serenity astonished him.

  Then… he understood.

  I’ve given everything I’ve got. I’ve got nothing left.

  Glancing at the dugout, Ryan observed Clarence “Sonny” Ramsey shift his position on the bench and glance at Leonard Michel Vincent. The Panther pitching coach sat in quiet contemplation. Then, in answer to the unmoving Vincent, the head coach of the Lockhart Panthers got up and started the walk toward the mound slowly, glancing at the bullpen, which stood quiet and inactive.

  Haddox stood waiting, rubbing up the ball.

  “How does he look?” Ramsey asked Borelli, who joined them in front of the mound.

  “His ball ain’t moving,” answered Borelli, avoiding Ryan’s eyes.

  Ramsey looked at Haddox with a softness in his eyes that he didn’t often show. A stream of sweat ran down the side of his face, brightened by the setting sun. Slowly, he took out a napkin and said, “You’re it, Ryan. I’m leaving you in until everything’s over.”

  Still rubbing up the ball, Haddox gave a slight nod to Ramsey. Perspiration splashed from his hair. “Thanks, Skip,” he said.

  “But we’re gonna play for the team’s win, not yours. It’s good baseball.”

  “I got ya, Skip,” Haddox said, absent of emotion.

  Ramsey turned to Borelli and seriously commanded, “Let him pitch his game. He’s earned it.”

  Deliberately, Borelli spit to the side. “He pitches, I’ll catch it,” he replied softly.

  In acknowledgment, Ryan squinted at the catcher. In this, the greatest game of his life, Ryan could not have asked to pitch to a finer catcher.

  Normally the hardened leader of the team, Borelli did not often show his emotions. Retaining a rough, hard exterior, he ranged from humor to dramatic in a sweep of passion. He didn’t see the advantage of demonstrating a gentler side of his personality.

  The Dragon fans unleashing a violent torrent of cheering, Borelli stood next to his pitcher and said, “Just throw to me Cowboy. I won’t let ’em hit the ball.”

  The catcher turned and went back to squat behind the plate.

  Ramsey stood on the edge of the dugout and signaled the infield to move in, even with the bag at the corners, anticipating a possible play at the plate. Then, he directed the outfield to move in until they were barely outside of the infield edge.

  Satisfied with his managerial strategy, he disappeared into the dugout.

  Stepping up to the rubber, Haddox took the signal. Slider, off the plate.

  Taking a deep breath, he rocked and fired. His career, maybe his life, hung on every pitch.

  He needed two more outs.

  They were the two most important outs of his life.

  Get up, Cowboy!

  Domingo and Vega were both right-handed batters. Ryan intended to take full advantage of this fact.

  Suddenly, the crowd began to jeer and boo.

  Borelli stood in front of the mound, his mask turned up on top of his head.

  Under a chorus of boos, Ryan moved to stand next to Borelli.

  “Skip’s letting us ride this out,” Borelli said, looking up into the stands. “One way or another, this game’s yours to win.”

  “Is that all you came to tell me?” asked Ryan, sardonically.

  Borelli smiled at him, feeling the inner peace within Ryan. He nodded and said, “And to tell you you’re buying the beers for our ‘after the championship celebration’ party.”

  “For the whole team?” responded Ryan, seeing the umpire walking toward the mound to break them up.

  “Yup,” answered Borelli.

  Rubbing up the ball, Ryan said, “Well, unless you shut your trap, and go back there and squat, we’re not gonna finish this game.”

  Steely eyed, Borelli extended his clenched right fist. There existed deep respect in his eyes.

  The umpire almost reached the mound.

  The crowd’s ranting pounding his ears, Ryan extended his right fist and bumped Borelli’s fist.

  “Send him a postcard, you bum!” yelled a fan, indignantly.

  “You guys can get a room after the game!” bellowed another.

  “Let’s finish this, Cowboy,” said Borelli

  Ryan countered, “I’ll pitch… You catch.”

  “I hate to interrupt your little get together men,” said the umpire, arriving at the mound, “but we we’re in the middle of a ballgame. Let’s get back to it.”

  Borelli turned to head back to home plate. Then he stopped. Looking straight into Ryan’s eyes, he said, “Paint black.”

  Lorenzo Domingo, swinging his bat menacingly, took his stance in the batter’s box.

  He’s crowding the plate, thought Ryan, placing his hands over the ball in a cutter grip.

  Borelli read his mind, putting two fingers down, signaling cutter.

  Pitching from the windup, Ryan glanced at the man on third, then kicked and fired.

  Leaping forward, the ball angled toward the inside part of the plate. Appearing to be a “hittable” pitch, the ball “cut in” at the last split second and carved the inside black.

  Realizing if he swung at the pitch, it would chop up his lumber, Domingo watched the ball smash into Borelli’s mitt.

  “Streee,” thundered the umpire.

  The crowd hissed at the 0-1 count.

  Stepping out of the box, Domingo looked at the third base coach. Meting out the hitting and base running signals, he paused and went through his pre-hitting ritual. Every move precise and calculated, Domingo stepped back into the batter’s box, digging his cleats to grip the dirt and clay. A glint formed at the center of his eyes.

  The next pitch, a waste pitch, kicked up dirt inside of the plate. The off-speed breaking ball was the slowest curve Ryan had in his arsenal.

  The conclusion to his career and the Lockhart Panthers’ season came into full focus.

  A titanic battle of wills ensued.

  A most horrific war, fought not against flesh and blood.

  Haddox waged dreadful warfare against the noxious, underlying torment within his shoulder. To evaluate the pathology, a deplorable ordeal, revealing more than a transitory condition.

  I fucked up my arm.

  He felt the permanent damage to his tissue.

  Standing atop the mound at the center of the temple that he’d built in his boyhood dreams, he realized his best moment was now.

  I’ll never pitch again. Never again will I be able to feel the power of my boyhood dreams. It’s over.

  “Throw the damn ball, bush league!”

  The yell and chorus of boos exploding from the stands disturbed his melancholy. Slamming the ball into his glove, Ryan stepped up to toe the rubber, and peered in to the plate to take Borelli’s sign.

  Two more outs. And I end this thing.

  After taking the signal, Ryan gave a quick glance to the runner on third before beginning his windup. No consideration to stealing home, the Dragons did not deliberate another strategy other than giving Domingo and Vega a chance to drive in the tying and winning runs.

  In its late break, Ryan’s cutter slammed into the thin part of Domingo’s bat. A crackling sound cut through the stadium noise. In a thousand fragments, the bat detonated, leaving Domingo standing in the batter’s box holding a third of its wood stock.

  Off the first baseline, the ball landed foul, crashing up against the right field wall, near the bullpen mound.

  Ryan confronted the torment in his arm. His shoulder throbbing—the horrific pain seemingly cutting him, burning him—he fought his inner mind to gain control over his body.

  Borelli signaled a setup pitch, an outside changeup before the inside heater—his out pitch.

  Permitting the change up to pass on the outside of the plate, Dom
ingo reset in the batter’s box.

  Hot needles gored his shoulder. Closing his eyes, a strange power took shape within Ryan. A mixture of sadness and desperation swelled up inside of him. Perhaps it was the frustration of a man who’d come to know intimately the lowness only the passed over and the forgotten know. Or maybe it was the insurgence of a man who’d been kicked once too often.

  Yesterday, his sorrow and misfortune as a ballplayer defined him. He’d come to expect it would never change.

  It won’t change until I change it, he concluded, stiffening his spine.

  Today he fashioned a new tomorrow.

  Drawing back on the relaxed motion of his backswing, Ryan raised his arm to its full length, reared back powerfully, and, placing his lead foot on the dirt and clay, fired his heater.

  The ball leapt from his hand, the power of his wrist snap. His prevailing force and mastery took command of the inside of the plate.

  Domingo, defenseless to fight off the pitch, swung his bat at the violence that threatened to dispose of him.

  By a hairsbreadth, Domingo’s bat missed the ball!

  In the end, the ball’s savage ferocity smashed into Borelli’s mitt.

  Then, only one out stood in the way of Ryan achieving his dream, and the Panthers winning the championship.

  Shaking his head, Domingo walked back to his dugout, the hometown crowd’s roar of disapproval ringing in his ears.

  Menacingly, a serious scowl across his features, Rolando Vega slowly walked up to the batter’s box griping his 36-inch, 40-ounce monster.

  Standing at the plate, Vega slowly swung his bat before taking his stance at the plate. His slightly opened stance tempted a pitcher to try to the sneak the ball by on the outside part of the plate, exactly Ryan’s style and objective of pitching.

  The danger of trying to sneak a pitch on the outside part of the plate was the 36-inch length Vega’s bat gave him. If a pitch missed its target by the smallest of margins, Vega would be able to make contact.

  To reach the ultimate pinnacle of his career, Ryan had to triumph over a final confrontation. Stepping up and toeing the rubber, Ryan reached up and ran his fingers across the “P” of his ball cap.